Finding Equilibrium
by Ancalime8301
Summary: Holmes isn't happy about gaining weight. Granada-verse, eventual Holmes/Watson.


A/N: Granada-verse, with canon used to fill in some gaps. I am aware of what actually caused Brett!Holmes' weight gain during the Granada TV series; consider this an AU of the series that attempts to explain it without involving the actor's personal life. Thus, I took a few liberties in describing Holmes' appearance, mostly because Brett!Holmes looks so very ill in some of those later episodes (try to picture him as he was a little earlier than that -like in, say the Bruce Partington Plans episode, if you've seen the series).

Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: _Okay, so Brett!Holmes is probably my favorite of all Holmes. Also, He's pretty much the only Holmes that ended up kind of... podgey..._

_So! Adorable!podgey!Holmes all self-conscious and annoyed at his lack of control over his body, and Watson being very appreciative of Holmes's... curves..._

This is the first time I've tried to write first-person Watson POV -I tried to write this in my usual manner, but Holmes wouldn't talk to me while Watson wouldn't shut up, so... *shrugs*

* * *

_Finding Equilibrium_

"Watson, I require your expertise."

"A new case?" I asked absently, not looking up from the morning newspaper.

"No, a personal matter." I heard Holmes light a cigarette and take a draw.

I set down the paper and watched Holmes pacing in front of the fireplace. "Personal? Is something wrong?"

Holmes stopped and gave me an amused look, the one that usually meant 'You ought to know better.' "I would not request your medical opinion if nothing were amiss." He smoked in silence for a moment. I took the opportunity to briefly scan Holmes' form with an eye for anything noticeably wrong, but no signs of illness were readily apparent.

"Yes, something is wrong," Holmes admitted finally, facing away from me as he said it. "I have been four pounds above my usual weight for a fortnight, and as my habits remain unchanged, I can only conclude there must be some medical explanation."

"Four pounds," I repeated in disbelief. "Come, sit down, have some breakfast, and explain to me how you can tell that you've gained four pounds."

Holmes snorted in derision and settled in his armchair instead, tucking his dressing gown firmly around himself. "Really, Watson. When confronted with a man concerned about unexpected weight gain, you invite him to have breakfast."

"You might have some toast and tea, at least," I replied with some exasperation. His habits remained unchanged, indeed.

Holmes waved his hand dismissively. I returned to the newspaper and my breakfast when it became clear that Holmes would say nothing more on the subject at present. After a little while Holmes stood, cast his cigarette butt in the fireplace, and disappeared into his bedroom, closing the door with a bang.

He reappeared again around mid-morning, still clad in nightshirt and dressing gown though he had added a pair of trousers to his ensemble. He had been running his fingers through his hair, too, for his hair was mussed and hung over his forehead in a thoroughly appealing manner. I watched him attentively, waiting for some signal that he was prepared to resume the matter from earlier.

Finally it came. "Doctor, if you would be so kind," he said, tilting his head in the direction of his bedroom.

I had my medical bag at the ready and followed him, feeling unaccountably nervous. It was not often I was allowed to see Holmes even partially unclothed, and I dearly hoped I would not make a fool of myself fawning over him. I could not allow him to suspect the depth of my regard for him. He regarded me coolly as I had him sit on his bed and remove what he wore above the waist; fortunately, once I began I easily settled into the routine of conducting a physical examination and found I could treat him as any other patient.

As I suspected, I could find absolutely nothing wrong with him. "As far as I can tell, you're in the peak of health," I told him as I put away my stethoscope. My fingers tingled from touching him, and I knew the feel of his skin would feature in many dreams to come.

He humphed in that way of his and started pulling on a shirt. "So you cannot explain why I am suddenly four pounds heavier."

"There are several explanations that do not involve illness. For instance, it is common to gain some weight as one gets older, and you have to recognize we are not as young as we used to be."

"Ha!" His brief exclamation seemed tinged with ridicule, most likely for stating the obvious, but I continued.

"Or perhaps your insistence upon abusing your health is finally taking a toll. It is entirely possible your body has decided to lay in provisions for the next time you decide to go without food for days at a time. I can only wonder why it waited so long to do so."

He pursed his lips but did not try to argue.

"My advice is the same as always: eat properly and get sufficient sleep. No more of this going four days without food or rest nonsense. You need to take better care of yourself. By the way, you never did tell me how you knew you'd gained four pounds."

Holmes quirked a smile and buttoned up his shirt. "That my weight had changed was obvious from the fit of my trousers. The amount was easily found out by paying a visit to the Turkish bath and making use of their scale."

Of course. It was so easy when he put it that way. As it always was.

.

Holmes didn't mention the subject again once we had left his bedroom, so I also didn't speak of it. I did think about it, however, and speculated that Holmes' recent cessation of cocaine played a part. Cocaine was, after all, a stimulant, and while in its grip Holmes would shun food entirely; since our return from Cornwall, though Holmes' appetite was as irregular as always, it seemed to me that he was eating somewhat more frequently than previously had been his wont, which would certainly help to explain a shift in weight.

I kept an eye on Holmes for many weeks after. Periodically I would notice him fidgeting with his clothing but otherwise he seemed quite normal. He excelled at the cases he accepted, solving them with his typical wit and insight, and his mood remained high even when his mind was unoccupied with crime.

Thus, I was completely unprepared for the confrontation that occurred one evening when I returned from having supper at my club. That Holmes was sitting in his armchair with his pipe was not at all unusual, so I thought nothing of it as I poured myself a small glass of whisky and drank it down.

"Watson." His voice was low and sent a shiver down my spine, though I could not fathom why. I turned from the sideboard to find Holmes' gaze fixed on me.

"Yes, Holmes?"

"Do you maintain that there is nothing physically wrong with me?"

"It has been some time since I examined you, but there was nothing out of the ordinary that I could find, and your behavior since then has been quite typical for you."

"Would you revise your estimation if I told you I have now gained a stone?"

"Well, no," I stammered, uncertain of myself under Holmes' scrutiny despite the confidence I had in my diagnostic capabilities. He continued to stare at me and I grew defensive. "If you wish to pursue the possibility that there is something medically wrong with you, by all means, consult with another physician if you do not trust my judgment."

His steely gaze continued to bore into me. "Sit," he said, and pointed to my armchair.

I could only comply, and he studied me for some time. I studied him in return, looking for any visible sign of the added weight. There was perhaps a slight softening of his jaw, more fullness in his cheeks, but it might simply have been a trick of the flickering firelight.

When I could not withstand his silence any longer, I said, "Holmes, I don't understand. Why is your weight such a matter of concern? Surely it does not affect the capabilities of your mind."

He pushed himself from his chair and began to roam the room restlessly. "No, it does not affect my faculties. But I must be able to rely upon my physical self to do what I command, when I command it, for lives may be at stake. This... accumulation of unnecessary mass is contrary to what my brain and my work requires."

"You were more than capable of incapacitating that dock worker last week," I reminded him.

He waved a hand dismissively, then abruptly stopped his roaming and seated himself opposite me once again, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his fingers steepled, resting against his lips. "What aren't you telling me?" he asked.

"I'm sorry, what?" I thought I had been following his reasoning fairly closely, but now I was utterly baffled.

"You are surprisingly cavalier about the entire affair. I cannot but think that you would be similarly disturbed by such an unwarranted change to your own person, so there must be some factor in my situation that you have failed to reveal. The two explanations you provided previously are insufficient basis for your utter conviction that there is nothing wrong."

"As a matter of fact, I have in the past endured 'such an unwarranted change to my own person' and thought nothing of the matter. Or did you think I am still in the shape I was when I was in the army?"

"That is different. Gaining weight upon leaving the service is to be expected, as you are no longer subjected to the rigors of army physical training. Now answer my question."

"Holmes," I said with a sigh, but he would not be deterred, motioning impatiently for me to get on with it. "I suspect the cocaine is a factor."

His piercing gaze became thoughtful. "I am no longer taking cocaine."

"Precisely." I waited to see if he would grasp the implications, and judged that he did when he leaned back in his chair and ceased looking at me entirely.

"I see." And he did, for he proceeded to explain to me exactly the reasoning I had used in my speculations. I could only nod my agreement at various points, and wait to see what he made of it. "Well, this is an unanticipated side effect," he concluded finally. "I do not suppose there is any information in the medical literature about how long this might continue?"

"None that I have found," I answered honestly, for the literature was quite sparse on the subject. "But in my experience, individuals often resemble their family members in matters of weight."

Holmes was on his feet and pacing in agitation as soon as the words had left my mouth; in retrospect, that was perhaps not the best way to phrase it. "I absolutely refuse to look like Mycroft!" he spat. "I would sooner throw myself into the Thames."

"I never meant to refer to Mycroft," I hurried to assure him, turning in my chair so I could try to catch his eye. "I do not think it physically possible for you to become Mycroft's size without concerted effort in that direction -ceasing all energetic activities, for example, and eating at least twice what you do now. Rather, I was referring to your parents, especially your father -was he portly? Slim? Or rather middling?"

"Between middling and portly," Holmes said to the window overlooking the street. "Perhaps sixteen stone, and he was roughly my height."

I tried to picture what sixteen stone would look like on Holmes' frame but couldn't quite do it. He had always been somewhat slim for his height -or at least I thought so- and it was difficult to imagine him any other way, but I was certain he would remain quite striking at any weight.

I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I did not notice Holmes had left the room until his bedroom door closed.

.

Holmes did not appear for breakfast the next morning, and in fact did not emerge until a telegram arrived that evening; a client, requesting an audience the next morning, which Holmes granted. That next day, all was again back to normal, and a succession of cases followed. I was pleased that Holmes did not seem to give his weight any further attention at first. I will confess I continued to watch him closely, treasuring each subtle change wrought by the 'unnecessary mass.'

His cheeks truly had lost some of their hollowness, which gave him a less predatory mien than had been his wont, and when he smiled or laughed, his entire face was softened in a way I found alluring. Any increase around the middle was well-hidden by the many layers required of any properly-dressed gentleman, but I did notice that his collars seemed tighter than they used to be. His jawline acquired a slight softness that I thought suited him, while his cheekbones remained as prominent as ever.

Even as I thought Holmes was quite attractive indeed, Holmes was obviously becoming less and less comfortable with himself as time passed. When we were at home, he frequently exchanged coat for dressing gown, as if to hide within it. He more often opted to remain in his nightshirt during those days that we had no engagements, and would sometimes sport a blanket over his shoulders in addition to his dressing gown. I wondered if I ought to tell him that tactic only made him appear more bulky, but decided he would not appreciate the comment.

A week or two of fretting uncomfortably with his clothing would be followed by an afternoon in which he mysteriously disappeared for some hours, only to return looking disgruntled. The fretting would cease for some time afterward so I concluded his excursions were to the tailor, though I wondered at the fact that he apparently only ever had one pair of trousers altered, for he never carried anything with him and did not have any deliveries afterward.

On occasion I observed Holmes restricting his intake of food even when not on a case, giving himself scanty portions at some meals while skipping others entirely, but even his iron will did not hold up for more than a month of such behavior before he succumbed to hunger. I never said a word, not when he didn't eat nor when he resumed, knowing that he would not take kindly to having his private desperation commented upon, even by his doctor and friend. Throughout the months of Holmes' torment, I did my best to remain as steadfastly supportive and loyal as ever, hoping he might confide in me so that I would have opportunity to put his mind more at ease.

Most worrisome was when Holmes physically withdrew. I had never noticed how often he would touch my arm, my shoulder, my knee in the course of our normal activities until the touches were conspicuously absent. Now, Holmes went out of his way to avoid physical contact of any kind. If we rode in a cab, he would do his best not to so much as brush his shoulder against mine; he would even go so far as to hail a carriage rather than a cab so as to sit in the seat opposite rather than share one.

I burned with curiosity about how Holmes looked beneath his clothes. He had turned down repeated invitations to go with me to the Turkish baths, and had not asked me to check his condition since that very first day a year and a half ago. I knew that, at minimum, his trousers had required alteration, and he evidently bought some larger collars, but otherwise he had kept me firmly shut out of this part of his life. That, at least, was not a change -he had never been forthcoming about himself, particularly physically- but given his evident distress at the situation, I was growing ever more concerned about his state of mind.

.

Holmes joined me at breakfast one morning, dressed neatly as always. I was nearly finished eating when he arrived, so I let him have the paper; he laid it flat on the table, leaning forward to read as he buttered his toast. I watched him, as I always did when I could, and noticed he hadn't tied his dressing gown. Instead, it hung open and as he bent over, I could see his waistcoat gaping open between the buttons.

I was mesmerized. Though my breakfast was gone, I remained at the table, my eyes fixed on this evidence that Holmes had actually developed something of a belly, and I imagined touching it, stroking it, licking it . . . oh, how inappropriate my thoughts were at that moment!

Evidently Holmes noticed my gaze and discerned its direction, for he abruptly stood with a huff of indignation. "Must you stare so? I am well aware that I am not what I was, and I would rather not witness your disgust."

"Disgust?" I repeated in disbelief. The word made him flinch, and he pushed past me toward the door. "Holmes, wait!" I cried, quickly abandoning my chair and grasping his wrist, forcing him to drag me along with him if he truly wanted to leave.

He stopped but kept his back to me, his shoulders slumped and his head bowed. "What do you want, Watson? Can't you leave me in peace?" The defeat in his tone and posture was painful to witness.

"If you thought that look was disgust, then you are blind and stupid," I said, challenging him to react. "It was not disgust, could never be disgust. You do not know me very well if you think that you could ever disgust me."

He didn't react, didn't respond. I yearned to throw my arms around him and hold him tightly, but knew such a display of affection would be most unwelcome and make the awkward situation even worse. Instead, I tugged his arm and led him to the settee, urging him to sit while I stood before him. He sat stiffly, his dressing gown now firmly tied and his arms tightly crossed over his middle.

"Look at me," I said gently. He glanced upward in my direction, but refused to meet my eyes. "Holmes, that wasn't disgust, it was-" lust, my mind immediately supplied. I floundered for a moment as I searched for a more appropriate word. "-approval," I finished lamely.

His eyebrows rose and he repeated, "Approval. Of what? Me looking like this?" His voice spoke of disbelief and perhaps even hurt.

"Well, yes, approval of you. For the first time since I've known you and begun worrying about you, you look truly healthy. Do you realize how often I've feared you starving to death? Wasting away before my eyes?"

"You needn't worry on that score any longer," Holmes said bitterly.

"No, and it is a great relief."

"Yet you don't worry about the reason for the change."

"Why should I? You remain the best at what you do, in all aspects of your chosen profession. I worry about your obvious discomfort with yourself, not about the change itself. We know why it's happening, so there is no reason to be concerned."

His guarded expression seemed to be dropping and his arms weren't held quite so tightly against himself; I hoped my words were resonating with his logical brain. He only needed some time and encouragement, and I was more than willing to give him both.

Holmes finally looked up at me and appeared ready to say something, but he stopped short of speaking when there was a knock at the door. He immediately stiffened and I wanted to strike something. Whatever progress I had made with him was now lost.

"Mr. Holmes?" Mrs. Hudson's voice came through the door.

"Yes?"

"There is a man here to see you."

"Send him in." Holmes was on his feet in an instant; I stepped back and out of the way and wondered how long it would be before I had any hope of reopening the discussion that had been unceremoniously ended.

.

Words weren't exchanged between us on that subject for quite some time. Words, however, aren't always necessary. When Holmes continued to avoid touching me at all costs, I went out of my way to put myself in the way so Holmes would have no choice but to brush past me or knock knees in the cab. In this manner I hoped to reassure him that I did not find him disgusting, that I had no trouble treating him as I always had, though I could not be certain he understood it as such.

One notable afternoon I managed to convince him -I was never sure quite how I managed it- to take me with him when he went to the tailor's. He refused to show himself in any considerable state of undress, but I was able to see him in only shirtsleeves and trousers; whatever he may have thought about his appearance, I thought he looked splendid. He carried his new weight well on his tall frame and, though he did indeed have more of a belly than before, it wasn't as pronounced as I would have guessed given the way his waistcoat had gaped. He must have been wearing an unaltered one that particular morning.

To the delight of the shop keeper, I convinced him to buy far more than he had intended by murmuring in his ear that he would feel better and look better in clothes that fitted him properly. He was reluctant, perhaps feeling that doing so was accepting that he would be at this weight for some time, so I reminded him that it was not difficult for a tailor to take in clothing should the need arise. This satisfied his vanity, and we left the tailor with a considerable list of items to prepare for Holmes in the following weeks.

A new dress suit was amongst the new clothing -Holmes' old one had been rapidly growing thin at the elbows and knees and so needed replacement anyway- and when it was finished and delivered, we obtained tickets to a concert. It was some well-known violinist; Holmes enjoyed it, and I enjoyed Holmes enjoying it. We followed it with a leisurely dinner at Simpson's, and altogether passed a very satisfactory evening.

It was a true pleasure to watch Holmes unabashedly taking pleasure in his usual activities without feeling self-conscious. Indeed, at both the concert hall and the restaurant we encountered several acquaintances, and every single one commented that Holmes was looking well. The compliments left Holmes flattered and flustered, as honest compliments often did. I was happy that he seemed to accept them without questioning their veracity.

When we strolled back to Baker Street, Holmes caught my arm and put his through it, and we passed the remainder of the distance arm-in-arm. My heart soared and I spoke hastily, hoping to capitalise on his good mood before it passed. "I was thinking of paying a visit to the Turkish baths tomorrow. Will you come?"

"Hm. I might," Holmes replied noncommittally, but it was more than I'd been able to get out of him for months, so I did not force the issue.

Fortunately, no case came up between that night and the next afternoon, so when I asked him again over luncheon, he had no excuse to use to his advantage. After deliberating for most of the meal, he agreed at last.

There weren't many others present when we arrived, for which I was grateful on behalf of Holmes' bashfulness. In keeping with the manners of the baths, we didn't speak until lying side by side in the drying room in languid companionship. "This was an excellent idea. Thank you," he murmured, so softly I almost didn't catch the words.

"You're quite welcome," I replied in a voice hardly more than a whisper. He quirked one of his brief smiles and we fell silent again, comfortable in our shared contentment.

When we finally departed the establishment, Holmes lit his pipe while I hailed the cab; his hand on my elbow helped me up, and he sat close beside me, just as he used to. My happiness was complete then; never would I have dreamed of the heights to come.

"Our recent outings have been most instructive," Holmes said after he paid the cabbie and we turned toward our front door.

"In what way?" I asked, ascending the stairs with him following close behind me.

"I have been observing the manner in which public interactions change when one of the parties has physically altered."

How like Holmes to turn his experience into an experiment! "And your conclusions?" I settled in my armchair, prepared to listen attentively.

Holmes paused by the window, watching the traffic on the street below. "It would appear our society generally takes your view of the matter: accept the alteration, so long as it is not disfiguring, and carry on as usual." He turned and fixed me with a look. "I will confess I suspected your interference when I was first told I was 'looking well,' but the surprise on your face told me I was mistaken."

He crossed the room and sat on the edge of his own chair, his expression intent as he continued. "Surprise wasn't the only emotion to cross your face. Tell me, Watson: why would you be pleased at a compliment paid to me?"

"It always pleases me when you are given the respect you deserve," I said, unsure what he was trying to uncover.

He made an impatient noise. "No, no, that is not it. Praise for my work can be said to be deserved. Compliments about one's person are not deserved, they are bestowed. Now tell me why you were pleased."

Now I believed I knew what he wanted. "Because I knew you might listen to them when they said you look well. You certainly haven't been listening to me, or if you have, you haven't shown it. I do think you look well, and it's long past time for you to stop fretting about it."

One of those quick smiles flitted across his lips before he spoke again. "And you, my dear Watson, have been the most interesting part of my study."

"Really," I said weakly, feeling an intense urge to fidget and rising to fetch my pipe instead.

"Yes. In all this time I find I am uncertain what you truly think of the matter. That you did not wish me to worry is clear, as were your assurances that I look well, but those sentiments strike me as the type you would express to any of your patients were they in the same situation."

I turned from the mantle to find him looking at me expectantly, as if awaiting an answer. "Well, yes, I suppose they are," I admitted, and his expression became slyly calculating.

"So what does Watson my friend think? Watson the man, not Watson the doctor."

I froze and mentally scrambled for some way around the question. I couldn't find one that Holmes wouldn't instantly see through; we both knew I was incapable of lying to him, or really of lying at all. "You want to know what I think. Of you." I repeated slowly, trying to buy some time to find some rewording of 'you look well' that he would accept.

"Yes, that is what I asked," he said with a hint of amusement.

There was a certain look in his eyes that made me think he knew exactly what I was hesitating to say and it gave me courage. I made the biggest gamble of my life: I stood before his chair, said, "This is what I think of you," caught his face in my hands, and gently kissed him.

It lasted only long enough for the intent to be clear before I tried to back away, only to find Holmes had laid his hands over mine, holding them in place on his cheeks. He swallowed several times before he was able to speak and even then he could hardly string the words together, he was so overcome by the emotions glittering in his eyes. "Watson, I- you- how long?"

"I don't even know," I admitted.

"Even though I'm-"

"Healthy," I interrupted firmly.

He huffed a laugh and held my hands as he rose from his chair. Then it was his hands on my face drawing us into another kiss; I used the opportunity to embrace him as I'd been longing to do, pressing against him to feel the curves of his body against mine. I allowed my hands to wander freely, stroking and caressing his back and sides through his clothing, and finally I could imagine what he would look like without the garments.

I did not have the privilege to see Holmes in his full glory that first night or even in the first week; it took him nearly a month to become comfortable enough with our new intimacy that he was willing to be undressed in my presence. Even then he had moments of hesitation -as did I, to be frank- but he became more relaxed in my company with time, and we often had occasion to enjoy one another.

As Holmes' confidence with me increased, so too did his ease with his form when out in public. His weight stabilised and even decreased slightly within the first few months of our deepened relationship, though I knew they had nothing to do with one another. It was inevitable that an equilibrium would be reached sooner or later.

But I did have one question, and I put it to Holmes one evening as we lay together in my bed, he on his back with me pressed along his side, idly stroking his soft stomach. "If you had known this would happen, would you have quit the cocaine?"

He laughed in a single, short burst.

"Is that a bad question?"

His arm squeezed my shoulders reassuringly. "No, it's an excellent question. I was just pondering the matter myself."

"With what result?"

"Without knowing the course our lives would have taken if I had not, it is difficult to say which would be the preferred outcome."

When it appeared that he did not plan to continue, I prompted, "And if you assume our lives would have continued in the same vein as they had been? Which would you choose?"

"This," he replied unhesitatingly, tightening his arm around me and stroking my arm with his hand. "It is exceedingly sentimental of me to say, but I would choose to quit the cocaine a thousand times over simply to reach this point, to have you."

It *was* sentimental, especially for him, but believe me when I say I rewarded him quite thoroughly for the sentiment.


End file.
